


The Confessions of a Sarcastic Journalist...

by orphan_account



Series: Vietnam War Tales [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied Relationships, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Sarcasm, Swearing, Vietnam War, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ...who deserved to be a human shield.Actually, Ray never stopped deserving it.





	The Confessions of a Sarcastic Journalist...

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting around as a WIP in my writing folder for almost a year, so I figured I'd post it and see how it goes.
> 
> This is a prologue! Ray's written recollections from Vietnam will be added as stories in this series.

When I tell people I traveled to Vietnam as a journalist early in my career, the interaction tends to go a little like this:

“I was sent to Vietnam to document the atrocities the soldiers were facing.”

Cue eyebrows shooting up. Momentary silence as they grapple with the idea of a journalist there -- after all, wasn’t it just a bunch of military men, helicopters, apes, and Viet Cong? Clearly, the writings appeared out of thin air. Probably written by the apes formerly mentioned. “What was it like?” Awkward question number one.

“Pretty fucking neat.” This always elicits a better reaction than explaining I’d been sent to Vietnam combat zones against my will because some fat cat in the big office chair wanted juicy stories. The alternative answer is, “Loved every minute of it.”

More silence. Struggling for words, and finally awkward question number two emerges, “Can you tell me a war story?”

 

Sure.

 

* * *

 

 

Rewind to 1969. I was a kid of about nineteen and dropped in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, surrounded by jungle and, you guessed it, a shocking amount of gross jungle slop. People want me to write about Vietnam. They want me to tell them my experiences, they say with huge, fascinated eyes. Their interest is child-like, the same sort of thing that happens when you pass a horrible car wreck. They know it's impolite to ask and is a morbid subject, but in the end _they really fucking want to know_.

It’s unavoidable when they find out I traveled there to win the sympathy of America and then demand a good “war story” as if it’s a children’s book I can read them before bed.

So here’s my war story, put into a context that the millions of readers (or, let’s be real, five at best) can understand. Imagine something like this:

I’m laying on my back on the cool grass near Camp Eagle, reveling in the silence and staring at the stars that filled the Vietnam sky as the sun merges with the jungle. The glittering stars are small specks against a blueish-black canvas, interrupted by dashes of color casting brilliant rays across the horizon. It’s a picture-perfect sight, but I don’t think to write down the details. Turns out it doesn’t matter since I can remember it like it was yesterday.

I don’t need to rely on a marked up notepad of chicken scratch to tell me how gorgeous the sunset was, or how peaceful the world seemed in that moment.

A light breeze passes by. Vietnam isn’t attempting to cook us to death with its unbearable heat or alternatively, drown us with the typhoon season. The weather had been fair and kind to everyone.

Adding to our good luck, the Viet Cong were receding; the North was overall on a losing streak that wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

It’s ironic how sublime everything is, almost, and I sit up to express this to the men beside me, enraptured by the breath-taking sights. “It’s pretty beautiful for a shitty world like this,” I comment, a half smile of contentment gracing my features. “If I would’ve known this was going to be a vacation, I would’ve come out sooner.” There are no bugs to swat at, no bombs to worry about being dropped on us at any second as we rest. No Viet Cong hiding in the bushes, ready to throw grenades that’ll blow our bodies to bits.

“Wish you would’ve,” one of the men says, giving me a good-natured clap on the back. “We like having you around.” I’m flattered at that, returning the playful motion and forgetting about the troubles of our situation. It was surprisingly easy to brush off the gravity of it all and relax with my companions. We rarely had personal scuffles, knowing it was a pointless endeavor when we were fighting for a better, praise-worthy cause: the Vietnam War.

Another chimes in, “It’s been nice. Ray, you must be our good luck charm. No deaths lately, no ambushing in the middle of the night or attacks, either.”

That leads into a reflection on how lucky we are to be alive and to be together, even in the jungle thousands of miles from home, only to gradually doze off into a gentle slumber as the stars become more prominent in the sky.

I wake up in the middle of the night, realizing four of my five friends have headed back to the base. That leaves just Ryan Haywood--a soldier--and I, and I peer over to his sleeping form as he continues to snooze gently. His face is strikingly handsome, and I have to bite my tongue to avoid swooning at the mere sight of his attractiveness: his sharp, firm jaw, smooth skin, lightly tussled hair. Like the evening, he gives off a calm and comforting air.

My heart begins to beat quickly and my cheeks flush, wondering what he would think if I simply... I lean over, my body hovering above his and slowly eliminate the distance between us. My lips meet his in a soft kiss, eyes fluttering closed. I swear I can feel him begin to kiss back, the beginning of a wonderful romance between us.

 

Except it wasn’t like that at all, and you can go fuck yourself.


End file.
